That 70s Story
by Immaculately
Summary: TITLE PENDING; Throwing the Bluths back to the 1970s, how will Michael Bluth fare running the Bluth Company? How will the rest of the family members fare if it was 1978? MichaelxMaeby. WARNING: SMUT. Vague attempts at historical accuracy but pokes a lot of fun. Rate & Reviews are groovy! Soundtrack youtube. com/ playlist?list PL8 ZLYEgCUVMOAqEJUOMDryfDBlxQ9Aql (erase spaces)
1. Chapter 1

p class="MsoNormal"strongThis is an experiment in terms of time for me, throwing the characters back in time forty years. This story will tend to focus its humour on reflections on then-present events/occurrences, which means those aged under 50 or non-history buffs may miss a bit. Googling might help, if you're curious. It's also trying to fit the characters within the social mores of the time. I'm going to write it in small segments and put them up as I go, I'm not really sure where it's going. /strong/p  
p class="MsoNormal"strongThis was inspired by Paul Mauriat's emSea Shell Shore /em(and possibly the mostly naked shots of Jason in emThe Change-Up/em). /strong/p  
p class="MsoNormal"strongAs always, WARNING: SMUT. Enjoy./strong/p  
p class="MsoNormal"em /em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emThis is Michael Bluth. A senior employee of the Bluth Company, a family company famous for building homes in California. He's the son of this famous man, George Bluth Senior. And why? Because George Bluth Senior has a friend./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Michael gently tossed back his thick dome of hair on his head, it catching on his large gold-framed glasses. His black bell-bottom suit pants flapped as he shifted his weight on the mustard carpet, leaning against George Senior's wooden toped veneer desk with a brushed stainless steel base. Behind them, a silver radio played "Love Will Keep Us Together"./p  
p class="MsoNormal""Dad, this is not going away. We can't afford to keep waiting."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emA Ford of a different kind. And the Ford that was not keeping America in work, with money in their pocket, in a vibrant manufacturing paradise./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"George Senior sat back into his huge leather chair, in his beige red-check suit. "I don't think it's that bigger deal."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Michael held up the various newspapers, each with big pictures of him and Former President Ford getting along like a house on fire. Next to pictures of a house fire./p  
p class="MsoNormal""This is burning us."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"George Senior shook his head. "What do you want me to do, hand over to my eldest son?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well…nobody would suggest that. But it's not like the market is on fire at the moment, we don't need distractions."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emThey didn't. It being a wonderful high prices, for bananas, chocolate, and oil, with salaries that just weren't going up. People weren't buying the big homes George Senior was selling./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well you've solved your own problem, just redirect that heat onto the market." George Senior threw up his hands in frustration, lighting up a cigarette./p  
p class="MsoNormal"Michael grabbed it out of his hands. "Don't light up that, I swear they're bad for you." He stubbed it out into a glass ash tray./p  
p class="MsoNormal""As if, next you'll tell me that asbestos sheeting we use is bad too." George Senior chuckled./p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well I don't know, there's an energy shortage, maybe they should use less electricity."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""And what, put on a cardigan?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Cardigans are very fetching right now."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""I don't see you wearing one."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""You know what? I will." Michael rolled his eyes. "But dad, we can't do nothing."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emBut that is what George Senior intended to do. And so over the next few weeks and months, little to nothing happened, except his man competitor, Sitwell, who had made houses more economical for the market, cashed in with some new wigs./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"In his cream office with cream fixtures and white marble tops, Sitwell's wig salesmen pawed over him./p  
p class="MsoNormal"In his red suit, Stan peered at the dome of hair wig in the mirror, evaluating two other homogenously shaped domes of different colours of brown. "I think I'll take 'em all."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emMeanwhile, the rest of the Bluth family were in the same gear as the era- slow. George Michael, in fact was silent. Boarding at the Milford School, he was neither seen, nor heard. /em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"In the pokey, dark wood finish kitchen, Michael sipped from the green glass. His mother stood opposite him, her hair in a tight French roll complimenting the pink suit she was wearing./p  
p class="MsoNormal"Michael pondered, "Wondering if I should pull George Michael out of the Milford School. I haven't heard from him in months."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"The Farrah-Fawcett haired Lindsay in a tie-die maxi dress gulped her Champaign. "Sounds like it's successful then. I wish they'd taken Maeby." She gestured out through the kitchen window, to a Maeby, a head of brown curls flicked out in front a peasant top over bell-bottoms, gazing silently out the window from the light brown velvet sofa. "She won't shut up."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emMaeby had tried to spread her wings and busy herself. And although she was bright, and ingenuitive, the film business wanted something different. It was 1978, and women producers, especially ones that looked like they were 16, were not taken seriously./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"In a producers' office littered with half-read scripts, coffee cups, and a typewriter, Maeby, In a high waisted black pants and a purple silk tie-neck top, had bent around her desk to grab a script, and a passing curly haired man slapped on the rump. "Toots, type this one out for me." He tossed a book of scrawl in her desk./p  
p class="MsoNormal"emIt just wasn't worth fighting for a post-feminism workplace for the disinclined Maeby. So she quit on that idea. /em/p  
p class="MsoNormal""I have no idea what she's gonna do with herself, 18, unemployed…"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""She's 18? Why isn't she on unemployment!?" Exclaimed Lucille, the crystal cocktail glass in one hand, leaning on the marble topped bench with the other./p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well she's still in school, for one." Michael snorted. "Have you even asked her about college?" He asked her mother./p  
p class="MsoNormal""I'm already paying Busters' tuition, I run a one-in, one-out system here." Lucille took a swig./p  
p class="MsoNormal"emLucille did. When Michael went and did business at the University of California in Irvine, they cut off GOB's theatre arts degree, causing him to take up street magic to make ends meet./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Yeah, look how well that's turned out." Michael slapped down the drink. "I'll…come up with something. It's not right she's just sitting around." He returned to the sitting area, surrounded by Buster with a brown afro, preppy shirt and tight bone pants; GOB, with a handlebar moustache complimenting dome of hair and leisure suit; and George Senior, nursing a Billy Beer; slunk into their seats, glued to the TV. "Guys, who's up for dinner?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal"They all moaned, content at sitting around./p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well, how about you dad, surely you're ready to do something? I mean, we're in the grip of the company going under."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Oh Michael, I might…I might…I might…" he almost passed out in front of him./p  
p class="MsoNormal"Buster hushed the group, indicating to the TV. Lindsay wandered in, Champaign in hand./p  
p class="MsoNormal"John Beard read, "…Bluth company, Former President Ford has asserted that Bluth Company President George Senior did meet with Nixon in the White House to discuss tax reform."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"George Senior shook his head in dismay. "Oh no, oh no, oh no…"/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emGeorge Senior had asserted several times that it was not in fact him in the Watergate transcripts, but another George Bluth, of Bald Eagle Island, Pennsylvania. /em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"In the cream-coloured panelled conference room, the non-descript government man had pressed play on the reel to reel machine in front of the gaggle of reporters, who held their chunky silver microphones in the direction of the speakers. "No, but we need to just leave countries off the books, you know. I mean, if the government isn't looking in Bermuda…"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""I don't know how Congress is going to feel about that one." Nixon had responded./p  
p class="MsoNormal""You're a very charming man, Mr President, if anyone can convince someone that something is true…"/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emThat was never technically disproven./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Dad." Michael whined, arms folded./p  
p class="MsoNormal""Michael, I…"/p  
p class="MsoNormal"John Beard on the TV continued, "…whose stock plunged seventeen points today, wiping eighty percent off the value."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Lindsay exhaled. "Well, that's it for here then, I'll see if the house in Massachusetts is ready."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emOh, did we forget Tobias? Doctor Tobias Funke was just that – still practicing medicine. He had in fact broken a patients' rib while doing CPR;/em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Tobias had stood in the middle of the antique hall, white haired men with fine tweed suits making notes in expensive leather-bound notebooks./p  
p class="MsoNormal"One of the men, with a military-square haircut, had asked, "And the patient survived?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Of course."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""So you saved his live?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""To the best of my knowledge."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""What are we doing here? This man should be given a medal, not disciplined."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"The trio had nodded amongst themselves./p  
p class="MsoNormal"A second, who had a bald head surrounded by a white ring of hair, had questioned, "And you're a psychiatrist?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Yes."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""It says here you believe medication, and talking to them about their feelings, is the best medicine."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well, yes."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"The third had piped up. "It sounds dubious, but I think we can all say we wish you luck in making your treatment work."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Sirs, you've been a magnificent threesome, and I thank you for taking the time to do me over properly."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emIt's true. In 1978, Tobias Funke made a good psychiatrist. And funnily enough, fewer people picked up on the tenor of his speech./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Back in front of the family, Michael lifted his nose, "That's it. From now on, I'm President."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emThe rest of the family, on hearing their stock was basically worthless, was unmoved by this announcement./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Knock yourself out." George Senior shrugged./p  
p class="MsoNormal"The room continued to stare blindly at the TV, except Maeby, who wandered out onto the porch. Michael followed her./p  
p class="MsoNormal"emFor an 18 year old girl, he still tended to infantilise his niece. /em/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Hey, how are things?" he laid the honey on./p  
p class="MsoNormal""Fine." She shrugged. "Apparently burning a bra on main street is the only fun a woman can have now."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Oh your Ganki wanted me to tell you, don't burn the one you have now, it cost her twenty dollars."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Maeby rolled her eyes. "What, she won't buy me another?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emShe would. She couldn't bare her niece getting around bare-breasted./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Maeby had half-heartedly walked down the street with the other loud, shrieking women, who dangling their bras in the air, then proceeded to set them on fire. Maeby set hers on fire from the other ones already alight. She had turned to nobody in particular. "That was fun." She'd shrugged./p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well…I…"/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Maeby studied her flummoxed uncle. "Don't worry, I'll talk to her." And gently patted him on the shoulder. She was surprised how much he relaxed from her light touches./p  
p class="MsoNormal"emMichael wasn't the only one infantilising./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal""So when's your last exam?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Monday."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""And what are you doing then?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Well, I thought Pop-pop would keep me on the Banana full time or something."/p  
p class="MsoNormal"emWhile it was a monotonous job, the stoners sure broke it up./em/p  
p class="MsoNormal"A group of grotty hippies had leaned up against a nearby trashcan. "Don't you love it when the waves are all wavy, I mean, so groovy."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Oh yeah." a second had replied, handing around a shared joint, then shouting to an approaching slightly-better dressed man with a big bag. "Hey Ray, you gonna cast some more ray's on me?"/p  
p class="MsoNormal"Back in the house, Michael shook his head. "You know, Pop-pop is no longer President. I want you in my office, first thing Tuesday morning."/p  
p class="MsoNormal""Okay."/p  
p class="MsoNormal" /p  
p class="MsoNormal"emShe decided it couldn't be worse than being on the Big Yellow Joint./em/p 


	2. Chapter 2

The office was a jungle of dark wood-veneer desks, metal filing cabinets, and orange walls, a water fountain and plant a sole oasis in the middle. Desks held heavy, loud typewriters bashed incessantly by the untrained staff.

"So no typing pool, huh?"

"I'm gonna review all of our current processes and procedures and see if we can't…improve a bit."

Maeby raised a brow and nodded, musing him and his predicament.

"Come into my office." He gestured, shutting the door behind him. He sat behind his desk, and she sat opposite him. He pondered for a minute.

 _Taking power was the easy part for this Michael Bluth. Using it was far more difficult._

"You're gonna see a lot in here, but, what we do here, stays here. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

 _That was part of Maeby's program as well._

He indicated to her a big pile of paper on the filing cabinet. "Can you go through that and work out if any of it is useful…or relevant…or indictable?"

She smiled to herself. "Yes boss."

 _And the first week was uneventful for the New Bluth Company, with Maeby and Michael sorting through the remains to identify what survived from the crash. But leading into the second week, they found little helpful was coming their way._

"Bills, bills, bills…" Michael moaned, flipping through them. "Did Pop-pop ever pay for anything?"

"I guess not." Maeby continued to slip wads of documents into filing cabinets.

"Probably easier to just find out the extent of the problem."

 _At the place George Senior had not left for over a week._

Michael entered the den, finding the brown carpet laden with junk food wrappers, and George Senior on the sofa, twiddling a black paddle. He turned to see the TV, seeing a long, flat stick swerving from side to side on the TV, a block bouncing off the sides and top of the screen, which hit the coloured lines and made them progressively disappear. "What are you doing, apart from eating yourself into the ground?"

"Relax, Michael, everything has High Fructose Corn Syrup in it, it's like eating vegetables in every serve." He stayed locked to the TV.

"I think you'll find that it was recognised as 'generally safe'…what is this?"

"Some kid said it was an Atari, it was the big-thing or something."

 _An Atari 2600. It was way bigger in every way to the other video games on the market, except for physical size of the unit, and its superior graphics. Which were thumbnail-size-blocks for every dot. Revolutionary when the competition were only offering black and white, one with pieces of fabric that would tape to the screen to stimulate graphics._

"Ah, okay. Why aren't you playing it with Buster?"

"He got over excited, Lucille took him upstairs."

Michael retrieved an empty juice box from the sofa. "I bet he did." And noticed a shrink rapped packet of them, missing one, peeking beneath George Senior's coat.

 _Michael had located the source of the commotion._

"And while you're busy pushing your son away from some quality time, some of us have bills to pay. Exactly how many bills should I be expecting to come in?"

"Well I had a credit system going with them, but since I'm no longer the head of the company, they're seeking payment in full from the new President."

"That would be the notes with the big red text on them that keep coming." Michael nodded with compunction.

"Yeah, I think red is their thing. Man, everyone needs to get one of these, these guys have to be huge forever." He twiddled his Atari joystick. "Maybe you should re-align the company to make video games instead, we already did some stuff in toys, and seems to be a huge industry."

 _Everyone did. And then America didn't make video games much anymore. But back at the Bluth Company, the debt collectors that were about to descend could tempt the death knell on the downshooting company._

"How much do we owe?" Maeby asked calmly.

"Five hundred thousand."

"And we have?"

"One hundred thousand."

 _Maeby may have failed algebra, but from what Maeby could tell, pretending to be something you're not is best left for the boardroom, not the classroom. And her maths much improved where there were dollars involved._

Back in the office, some time later, Maeby added the figures. "…compound interest, we could owe double…really quickly."

"Okay." Michael flipped through the sea of papers, "do you think, there is any chance of austerity?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

 _Lucile Austero, of Austerity Spiritual Enlightenment Guidance Healing Centre, a retreat offering a new way of treating those vacated from a general sense of wellbeing, and a generous benefactor to the Bluth family. Or at least she had been._

Lucille mused the wad of papers as she skimmed them, as a shriek let out behind them in a nearby room. "And what's the buy-in level?"

"Well, it's a little delicate, see, I need four hundred thousand."

"Oh, I mean 'buy-in', you know, some skin in the game."

Another screech sounded nearby.

"They'll be no skin unless someone buys in."

Lucille Austero nodded. "I see. But I've invested in Bluth three times now." She laid her square-rimmed spectacles on the table. "And always came back empty."

 _Her dividend did not return on George Senior, and she got no satisfaction from Buster nor GOB. Although Buster offered the best Return on Investment, he came up dry on delivery._

"You seem to be doing well here." Michael stated, a moan coming from the distance. "Have you always run this on your own?"

"Well, it was technically owned by Argyle Austero, it was easier to get security that way. But now, it's all me."

"And what a you it is."

She narrowed her gaze. "Oh don't you start, next you'll be taking your pants off too."

 _George Senior was the first of the three to do it._

Michael patted his quiff, and gulped, crawling to the floor. "Oh no, please Lucille," he begged, on his knees. "I know we've had our ups and downs, but we really need a break."

Lucille Austero smiled. "You know, you're the first man who's come in here looking for money who has begged. And you begged better than two others. I'll lend it to you. "

 _At an interest rate of 15%. It was after all, the going rate._

"You know, maybe we should do this more often." She winked, as she shook his hand. He grimaced and nodded.

 _Michael was more than a stranger to the no-pants dance. Since his wife had died of cancer, he had felt simultaneously stunted from moving on, and stigmatised from being a Widower who might "move on". Mind you, it was only him who felt the latter. And given he'd only…done it with one person, it left him with a particular inclination towards women._

Michael unlocked his stair car, freezing up and averting his gaze as a cute nurse walked passed and winked at him.

 _None at all._

He nervously jiggled the door open, awkwardly angling himself into the staircar.

 _And as you might have guessed, this nervous-Nellie syndrome seeped into other areas of his life._

Michael stood at the head of the table in the boardroom. Surrounded by wood panel, the board table itself was dark wood, surrounded by cream-coloured wheely chairs, seating the dully dressed team. He was flanked on his right by Maeby. "And we can expect those sales projections to be flat."

The slick salesman in his red suit threw back his head. "Well it can't be us, we've all met our targets."

"I think you'll find we're generally below trend." Michael just barely asserted.

"That isn't what my figures say." The salesman challenged.

"Give me your figures."

"Can't, I gotta be outta here at three."

"It's four now."

"Yeah, you're holding me back."

The respect Michael had from the room was fast evaporating, the other salespeople struggling to not roll their eyes, a sea of slouched shoulders. Michael went to open his mouth.

 _Michael Bluth wasn't the type to pick fights. His father, George Bluth, had run the Bluth Company with a veneer of competency and an iron fist for decades._

George Bluth had sat behind the dark wood desk, surrounded by 1950s minty walls, a cigarette in hand. Addressing a cowering employee, a group huddled behind the doorframes to hear the end result, George Senior's fist hit the desk hard, muttering with sarcasm, "You're gonna get this done today?"

 _With corporate regulators…lacking and George Senior's links to a previous Whitehouse, it was hard to challenge it._

From his antique carved desk, amongst the elegant carved Georgian room around him, Gerald Ford had written judiciously on a typed letter.

George Senior had leaned against the window frame, uttering with surprise, "You're gonna get this done today?"

 _Having a dad that grew up during the minimalist Great Depression didn't help either, and Michael, the middle child, often wound up with the wrong end of the stick. While Buster was given a free pass as the baby._

In the wood-panel room of Buster, Buster had occupied his wooden desk and vinyl chair. George Senior had held up and read the assignment for the fifteen year old Buster; 'One hundred words on why the American Revolution was good'. He'd patted Buster on the head. "You're gonna get this done today."

 _And GOB was the man of firsts- he was also the deep disappointment._

George Senior had inspected GOB's college dorm, on his desk a pile of paper, and he noted the huge stack of papers left unattended. Laid out around GOB on GOB's bed, a deck of cards, in his hands a top hat. He'd observed GOB's interest in the stuff in his hands. He shook his head, gesturing to the magic paraphernalia in disappointment. "You're gonna get this done today."

 _And Michael was parented hard – harder than Buster. Between Military School, being denied college because GOB had gotten there first, it had not been an easy middle road. He married Tracey and had George Michael, and tried desperately to fit into his Dad's universe, which had maligned him. As real men don't cry, his pent-up feelings over the years, including for the loss of Tracey, had crippled him. And there he stood, the President of a traded company, struggling to open his mouth._

"No." He stammered. "N-n-no, you're gonna get that done today."

"Excuse me?"

Michael left his position at the head and closed into the man's space, leaning into his face. "Your job is on the line, bud."

"I've been with this company twenty years, you really think your dad would want to lose that?"

"If that's how you think it is, then you can go now." Michael crossed his arms.

The man glared at him and shook his face, "I see, I'll have it to you by morning."

Maeby smiled from the sidelines.

Back in his office, she sat on the edge of his desk. "You did really well."

"You think so?"

She came around his desk, leaning against it. "Sometimes you have to stand up to people like that, Michael. It's what goes into being a boss." As she slid onto it, tossing her head back slightly.

He tried unsuccessfully not to grab a glimpse of her chest through the wrap dress.

She tracked his eyes. "I happen to think it's good when men are men."

"Well I'll…keep it up I guess." Michael stammered.


	3. Chapter 3

_Michael would need to. Unlike Michael, the bank was no so open minded when it came to guarantees._

Michael sat opposite the banker, who was dressed in a brown suit with slicked back hair, a drab office of steel filing cabinets and dark wooden fittings. "I'm sorry, we can't accept this."

"Why?"

"The guarantor does not meet our lending criteria."

"Her company is worth several million dollars, what exactly is the problem?"

The man mumbled something about "'Her' company."

"Oh, I see. I didn't think we lived in Happy Days anymore."

 _A totally underrated TV sitcom about the 1950s, that included the talents of a brilliant character, Richie. And some others, who remembers their names…_

"We don't live in Happy Days sir, I can't shout, 'heyyyy', and expect the Fontz to just, show up."

Barry Zuckerkorn stuck his head in around the door. "Do you have a moment? I have some contracts that need to be pushed out."

"I'm sure we have til the end of the day." The banker brushed off.

"No, pushed out physically, they're stuck in the shredder." Barry pointed and mumbled.

"Just, ah, I'm with a client."

"Oh right." He nodded at Michael. "Hey, aren't you George Bluth's son?"

Michael nodded, maintaining a glib smile.

"Heyyyy." Barry winked at him, then left them to it.

The stern bank manager returned to Michael. "Sorry, our lending policies are as they are."

"Can you be more specific?"

The man gazed up, eying an 'equal opportunity in the workplace' poster, and the totality of female employees- being the typing pool, huddled in a small ground around the water cooler. "No, I cannot."

 _Michael returned, intending to deliver news._

He shut the door behind him, catching sight of Maeby stretched out on his couch, dress having travelled up her thighs, the majority of her legs exposed.

"Heyyy." He averted his eyes, trying to not commit the view to memory.

"Oh, hi. Sorry, I had just been reading through some of the last folders. How'd it go?" she spread her skirt over her legs.

"We've got a problem. They won't accept it as she's a woman."

"Well…how did she get around that when she got the loan?"

"She slapped her brother's name on it."

"Okay."

"What are we going to do?" Michael sighed, crestfallen.

 _Michael had hope beaten out of him, and back into him, and out of him, within the space of two weeks. Being deflated and reflated like a jumping castle made Michael feel like one. Maeby wasn't expecting to be asked for advice, let alone advice in a crisis._

"You're asking me?"

"Yes."

"Slap her brother's name on it."

"No, but that would be…fraud." Michael uncurled into the leather chair.

"You don't think refusing to honour her guarantee because she's a woman is cheating her?"

"Well…I guess."

"We re-submit to another branch which hasn't had access to the first application, saying that the first were happy given there were tight deadlines for another branch to process it. So the jerk who you saw doesn't know, they think a man's backing us. I mean, 'heyyy'?"

Michael pursed his lips. "I don't know."

"You have to trust me." She leaned over his desk. "Do you trust me?" she gazed deep into his eyes.

"Okay." He gulped.

 _He didn't see too many other options. Of course, he could have called on the Bluths' other traditional financers, being Uncle Jack- who wasn't really an uncle, and whose gymnasiums were only just beginning to pick up steam in the 'lets get physical' 70s – or go begging to his father to sort something out. And it wouldn't be necessary anyway._

In the cream office of light brown-finish wood furniture, the bright eyed banker smiled ruefully, "Okay, well that all seems to be in order."

"So you'll um…grant it?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't we? It's not like we'd need to check up on the owner as of 1970 of _Austerity_."

Michael gulped again, nodding.

 _It wouldn't be for over a week until something else happened; despite her poor arithmetic, Maeby noticed money dripping into a shadowy account on the books, for an 'N Bluth'._

She stood in front of his desk, holding a wad of paper. "It's been collecting money for well over a year."

"I don't think we can draw any conclusions on that, why would they steal from the company?" Michael shrugged.

Maeby narrowed her eyes in scepticism.

 _Michael confronted his family about it._

Lucille gestured to the Hispanic delivery men, four holding a very heavy looking hot tub. "Put it out on the patio."

Michael, walking in on the scene, watched with interest. "Wait, mom, where did you get the money for that?"

"Oh, just a little bit set aside. Scrimping and saving." Her eyes fixed in no particular direction.

"Right." And then he noticed Busters' new hook. "And how Buster he get that…thing?"

"He won second prize in a beauty pageant." George Senior twiddled the joystick, a big stack of cartridges sitting next to the machine.

"And all of those." Michael pointed next to the Atari.

"N Bluth card?" Buster mouthed to Lucille, who turned her head and ignored him.

"Wait…that account? Are you spending company money?" Michael gasped.

"No…It's family money." George Senior mumbled.

"I can't believe it." He stormed out, almost running down Maeby as she walked up the dark hallway. "Maeby!" He clasped his hands on both her bare forearms.

Her eyes barely caught them gripping her before she drew back to his exasperated face.

"They were using the N Bluth account to steal from the company." He hissed. "You were right."

 _The entire interaction took maybe only a few moments, but in that time, the change was huge. The naïve Michael had been shaken, trust in what he'd wholly believed was his central purpose, to rebuild a crumbling company to stoke the family's name, irreparably damaged. Michael's deep disappointment had dashed the last flicker of hope, like the dampening of the only candle a child with nothing had on Christmas. And before him stood a hardy yet undeniably beautiful flower with dark mysterious eyes, one who he'd never really known, but who the back parts of him cried out for familiarity, a tiny light at the back of a now darkened mind. For her part, the brief closeness with the older, well built man brought something out of Maeby, something she didn't want to see, a splinter of human frailty that seem to punctuate this hard woman, a softening._

"I feel like you're the only one I can trust." He added.

 _As their shift sunk into them, the continuum continued unabated down the hall, his mother calling his name breaking the embrace._

She asked them as they entered the large room, "Are you going to join us in the hot tub?"

"Sure, sounds…good." Michael nodded slowly, her deceit of several minutes ago having slipped his mind completely.

Michael approached the big beast of a machine behind Lucille, a big wooden structure, square and room for three abrest, spotting Buster, GOB and George Senior, with George Senior leaned over the edge, twiddling the Atari remote on the nearby TV.

"You'd fit into Busters, I think Lindsay has left some behind." Lucille critiqued Maeby's arms. "Good they don't need to cover those ham hocks."

"Mom." Michael chided.

Lucille shrugged off the rebuke. "I can't help what's there."

 _Michael to the tub with his family, but his focus was elsewhere._

Maeby returned to the tub, her arms crossed over her bosom.

"See, I said she did." Lucille pointed at Maeby's arms.

"You know, in magic school, they saw this same problem. I think it's because she's not standing straight. And arms back." GOB suggested.

She revealed a triangular bikini top made for a less endowed woman.

Michael diverted his eyes from display, as she poured out of the bikini. He straightened himself, back against the wall of the hot tub, trying to enact GOB's advice. "She's not fat." He stretched backwards over the edge of the tub.

Maeby climbed in beside GOB. Her eyes brushed over the man that had clutched her arms earlier, and was temporarily distracted by his naked torso, feeling the imprint of his hands into her forearms again. She gulped, and plastered on a fake smile and focused on Lucille's cocktail glass which perched on the edge of the tub.

"Michael, see the photo of me and Tony Wonder." GOB bragged, hanging it out in front of him.

Michael leaned forward, catching sight of Maeby, the triangles of fabric stretched over her floating breasts. He gulped and focused all his energy on the photo. "Mm, it's a very good look."

"Are you joking? I look terrible." GOB shot him down, "No, we both look terrible." Grinned GOB. "We both look hot, that's our thing, and here, nobody looks hot. That's the joke?"

"Oh yeah, hah, yeah, it's exactly what I can see right now." Michael nodded, and gulped.

 _The awkwardness of the situation bubbling under the surface refused to permeate the situation. But what lead to this growing tension was more interesting than a dip in the hot tub._


	4. Chapter 4

_It was five or six months earlier. And while some details may have changed as they do in an alternative reality, it's no surprise that Lindsay and Tobias were bad even for 70s parents. Their seventeen year old daughter failed to ring up on their register, most of the time, unlike their lifestyle._

Lindsay stood on the shag rug on the landing of the sprawling living room, brown brick walls, and chrome-finished furniture as far as the eye could see, surrounded by the yuppies of tomorrow, pants up to her waist and flowing crepe sleeves. "Daughter? What daughter?" Lindsay laughed to the group.

 _It may have been that parents treated themselves more as number one and kids tagged a log a lot more, but they at least acknowledged they had kids._

Lindsay responded to the guests, "Oh, no I don't have kids."

Tobias finally chimed in. "Wait, don't we have that one back in California?"

"Oh yeah. Her."

 _And they'd offloaded her on the east coast. Why? So she could attend the brand new groovy school, 'Openings'._

"Oh yeah, she was unhappy here. She's in boarding school." Lindsay added.

 _'Openings' wasn't a boarding school._

Maeby stood against the wooden fence of the school gate, with its large stretches of paddock behind her, waiting for a car to collect her.

 _So it fell to her east-coast family to realise she'd been left homeless in another city._

Michael opened his dark wooden front door. "Oh hey Maeby, what are you doing here?"

"Well, Ganki and Pop-pop aren't answering, and GOB's boat isn't moored, so…"

"Aren't you in boarding school?"

 _As we said, 'Openings'_ _is not a boarding school_.

"Huh." Michael nodded slowly. "And how did you get here?"

"Hitchhiked."

 _As a lot of young people did. As there were various types of rouges that took advantage of it however, it wouldn't be a fad that lasted._

"Okay. Well come in."

 _Michael, of course had room inside this model home, not having his entire family underfoot._

Michael opened the door into the child's bedroom, with 60's clown décor; a white-spotted toy box; a lamp of a fuzzy-haired clown head with loads of creepy white makeup; a freeze running around the edge of white with blue spots; and a wide-eyed bed of high brows and a tiny lip line.

 _But it hadn't been occupied since George Michael was put into boarding school – eleven years ago._

"Certainly has a theme here." She sniffed. "And a smell."

"I don't get many visitors. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if the family had lived in here more. I think I would have liked it." He pulled open the window.

"Wasn't growing up with Ganki enough?"

Michael was so taken aback by her blunt question, he didn't have room to be affronted, and just ummed and ahh'd.

 _Michael had barely said boo to his niece, her having lived on the east coast her whole life, and was shocked a member of his family could be quite so blunt. Of course, she wasn't actually related to him, something he'd find out soon enough when his mother made it clear._

The long, heavy wooden table was surrounded by bamboo wallpaper and a mustard-coloured lampshade. George Senior, Lucille, GOB, Buster, and Michael sat around the table, laughing, all at least tipsy if not inebriated, when Maeby would join the group.

Lucille would announced, "Oh, you're here. I thought they'd gone off sulking to the east coast permanently because I'd never told your mother she was adopted."

 _But the east coast is where she stayed, living with her uncle. But soon, he realised her openings were closing fast with this closed-minded school._

Michael's living room, hung with white wallpaper with pearly square geometric patterns, carpeted in peach, had tall glass aluminium-framed windows opening out onto a dark timber deck.

"And you're sure you can do another shift?" Michael queried.

"Yeah, it's not like they do homework."

"So, what subjects are you taking final year?"

"They don't do the Californian curriculum."

"What will you get at the end of the year then?"

"A good aura?"

 _Which was not a good aura for Michael, who promptly pulled her out of it. And pushed her into something else._

The room was tiny, the cold, bulky steel furniture eating away at any attempt at empty space, piles of dusty paper of epidemic proportions, and a huge bookshelf of serious books crowding out any notion of wall space. Maeby sat in opposite the thick-rimmed dowdy spinster, a plain grey dress of heavy cotton, grave face of extolling a life of gravitas. "Is your guardian coming?"

"Ah, Ma'am, I don't know."

"He seems to think you can complete your whole senior year in six months."

"Yeah, he said that."

The woman deepened the lines as she furrowed her brow. "I'm not seeing a lot of enthusiasm."

"He seems to think it's best for me."

"What do you think is best for you?"

"I don't know."

"He's put down here you're 'very smart'. Do you know what 'smart' women who don't know what they want wind up?"

"No Ma'am."

"They wind up wives to rich men eating cake all day. Do you want to be Marie Antoinette, do you?"

 _This didn't sound half bad when she was presented with the alternatives._

"You don't, do you?"

"Ah, no…"

"It's where my sister Libby wound up, married to a rich man, that drive and intellect wasting way as she remains barefoot and pregnant." She sneered, "No, I went to college and did one of the few things women of my age could do- education. He seems to think you could do anything." She peered at the form.

"I…I guess."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Hey, sorry I'm late."

"We were just discussing the girl's accelerated learning arrangements…"

"I'll act as her tutor for anything she needs." Michael insisted. "I always got good grades, and I'm only really helping out with the family business." He handed over a slip of paper.

She inspected the cheque, and the woman's lips curved upwards. "Welcome Maeby, to OC Prep."

"Maeby, can you leave us for a moment?" Michael requested.

She closed the door behind her, wandering down the 50s style halls, to an exterior door. An immaculately dressed woman in a cutting-edge deep purple suit with a fox fur around her neck smoked, gazing out.

"You stuck here too?" Maeby enquired.

"Oh no, waiting for my petulant sister, she's such a whining pain in the butt." She moaned.

"What's her name?"

"Gabby Noflecks, the principal."

"You're Libby?"

"Yes. Did she mention me when she was trying to scare you? Eh, don't answer that. You know what I've really got? Husband and four kids, big house, can buy what I want."

"You don't work?"

"I do work, charity stuff. I run numerous trusts, you know. I do as I please, really."

"She made your life sound like a death sentence."

"Oh, it could be. But Bill was one of the more liberal men, he didn't really mind me getting out and about. I could never have worked, employers just wouldn't have taken me. But who knows, with the right man, maybe you can have it all."

 _Maeby only wanted two out of three, but two outta three aint bad._

"What am I doing here then?"

"If you want any serious man to take you seriously, you need to finish high school. How are your grades?"

"Well, I need to do a whole year starting…today."

"Do you have a tutor?"

"I have an uncle determined to push me through?"

"You're a smart girl. Do a bit of column a, a bit of column B, if you know what I mean."

She nodded and smiled, just as Michael approached them from far off in the distance.

"Huh, cute, single but a geek at twelve o'clock." Libby scanned Michael.

Maeby snuffed a laugh before Michael reached them, "Hey, we ready to go?"

"We sure are, you start tomorrow." He noticed Libby. "Hi, I'm Michael."

"Libby. Sureflecks."

"Yes, Gabby warned me about you." He joked.

"I'm sure this one could too." Libby took a puff.

 _And a little of column A with a dash of column B is what Maeby did. They spent many hours learning English,_

White wavy wallpaper wrapped the dining room, a chrome sputnik fixture lighting them from above. They sat around the rounded teak dining table.

"But why is it a Mockingbird?"

Michael stared back dumbfounded.

 _History_ ,

"Why would Japan just go bombing Hawaii? I mean, that's not the mainland."

Michael stared back dumbfounded.

 _And algebra,_

"No, no, no, just quit this subject." Michael shut the book in frustration.

 _Scratch that, remedial math._

"So you remember Pythagoras?"

Maeby stared back dumbfounded.

"Okay, what's fifteen percent of ten thousand dollars times thirty-five buildings?"

She snapped back, "Five-thousand, two hundred and fifty."

Michael scrawled a Pythagoras diagram on his pad. "So, so I have a cross roads and want to build a path from these ends of the roads through this land, paths are standard cement, this is $20 of paths, this is $50 of paths, how much will the path between the middle cost?"

"Is there landscaping, what about application fees to the county?"

"Landscaping inclusive. No fees."

"What county are we talking about?" She raised a brow. "All the local ones have fees? Is this interstate?"

"Just…do the math."

"I already had, it's fifty-three point eight five."

"Okay, so from now on, just add dollar signs to every number you see."

 _For the record, she later got an A in math. While it was more study that Maeby ever would have wanted,_

She bashed her head down on the book, groaning.

"I heard that!" Michael shouted from another room.

 _Michael occasionally would let up, and they'd spend time together without books._

Maeby sunk into the pea-green angular sofa against Michael, both staring at the respectibly-sized wood framed TV, beat-up rally cars speeding around a track.

"Why are you watching this series again?"

"Cars, racing, I dunno…they seem to fight with each other a lot, so much backstabbing. I mean, can you imagine any of that sort of thing happening in the home building industry?"

Maeby just stared at the screen.

"Oh, and that Ursula character is interesting."

"She sure looks familiar."

The TV decreed, " _Wheels_ will return in a moment."

"You know, I never asked, why are you here? Why aren't you at school in Massachusetts?"

"I got kicked out."

 _Maeby was in a school like the Milford Academy. Military drills without shouting, learning by drills, but no actual use of drills, which would have possibly made it more bearable._

Maeby groaned.

 _But unlike her cousin, she was not good at being seen, nor heard._

The antique desk was surrounded by white-washed walls, as the rigid military officer seated in a stiff leather chair sat opposite Lindsay and Tobias. "I would suggest a school with less strict boundaries and a less rigid curriculum."

Michael shook his head, "So they sent you to a school with no boundaries?"

"They'd heard from a friend I needed boundaries, so they sent me to the school with all the boundaries."

"I'm kinda seeing a pattern here."

"I've been to five schools in five years."

He patted her on the head. "Well, you're not leaving OC."

"What if I set fire to the school?"

"I'd be covered if you did, and anyway, you're not gonna do that."

 _Maybe it was the exhaustion from study, or maybe it was the oddly familiar Ursula, or maybe some sort of strange respect for Michael – a respect she'd never had for her parents - but Maeby decided she wasn't going to set fire to the school. At least while she attended it._

"Hold that thought."


	5. Chapter 5

_And between the study, the family did have time to spend time together. George Senior remained the big man at the company, and gave his subjects everything they desired._

The family, minus Lindsay and Tobias, sat on the sofas in the living area of the parents' house, as Buster unwrapped the forest green printed paper of the large box that sat on his lap. "Woah! Lawn Darts!"

 _On their birthdays._

"I didn't think this was coming!"

 _When he thought he could afford it._

"Been a rough year."

Lucille turned to George Senior, "Oh, have you put the Mercedes in the shop? Could the dealer recommend a good one?"

"Yeah, he said after a week of use, new cars aren't supposed to make those noises."

 _Or more when he wanted to._

Busters' face remained lit up, his hands curling around the box. "Huh, the seals on this are loose."

 _They had come from the clearance bin, so some damage was to be expected._

George Senior strode over, peering at the damaged packaging. "Just a few tears, I'm sure they're as good as they would be if there weren't box tears."

"You know what, you're right." Buster nodded in satisfaction. "I wanna go out and play with these now!"

"And I wanna see my toy." Lucille made a b-line for the counter, taking the Mercedes key.

"Hey!" George Senior protested, in hot pursuit.

GOB followed Buster out, with Michael not too far behind, noticing Maeby staying put on the sofa. "You going to come along? Could be fun?"

 _Fun is one way to describe Lawn Darts. Although it wouldn't be the word used by the Consumer Product Safety Commission when detailing how 6,100 people in the following years would wind up in emergency rooms from them._

"I don't know I need a lot of fun." She moped, head resting on her palm.

"What's changing?"

"I don't feel like I have anyone to talk to, like, all the kids at school seem either bookworms or tomorrow's secretaries or way younger than me, I don't know anyone my own age."

 _Had the Milford Academy been less effective, Maeby would maybe have had someone to speak to, but George Michael was not seen, nor heard._

Michael patted her shoulder. "You've always got me?"

She grimaced. "Thanks. I guess."

 _And even more tragically, this Maeby maybe would have settled sooner for a George Michael._

"Whenever you feel alone, I'm here for you. Okay?"

She nodded. "Alright, let me at the Lawn Darts."

 _But Buster had gotten to them first._

GOB dashed away as the metal-tipped red plastic finned pierced the air like a spear pursuing its prey, it narrowly missing his head. "Are you sure this is how we're meant to play?"

"I don't know." Buster shrugged. "You throw one to me!"

GOB hurled the blue plastic dart followed by the red one.

Buster backed as the spikes whizzed through the air.

 _And as they kept playing with them the way nobody should play, Buster failed to notice the obstacles around him, as his dreams of being within the rapidly de-deployed US Army would be skewered._

As a football laid in the bare grass, Buster tripped backwards over a rock, flinging his hands over his head. The two darts dropped rapidly mid-air like two satellites crashing to earth, and with pinpoint accuracy, pierced Buster's wrist and forearm and pinned him, a fountain of red seeping over the green grass, the air punctuated by the howls of Buster.

 _And as the seals on the box would be lose, so would the chances of Buster ever using his hand again._

The family, including the parents with their toy's keys in hand, rushed to the aid of Buster.

GOB mused the situation from a distance. "I should use knife throwing in my act."

 _It wouldn't end well. But for the meantime, Michael also found himself lacking someone to talk to, and in desperation, turned to one man,_

GOB stood opposite a gaudily painted glittering ring with the outline of a human drawn on it, in the same part of the backyard where Buster was skewered, flinging knives while attempting to avoid hitting the silhouette. In his stage outfit, he had a purple leotard with huge glittering bellbottoms and a gold glittery cape.

 _Who may or may not have looked like a reject from the 'Brady Bunch Hour', a singing, dancing, extravaganza featuring the old cast of the 'The Brady Bunch', most of whoms' talents lay in acting. And then there was 'fake Jan', because the 'real Jan' had a scheduling conflict and couldn't make it; or, that's what she said at the time. Not that GOB had watched enough of the colouringly exuberant Brady Bunch Hour to have modelled his costume on it._

Michael folded his arms, "I just don't know how to deal with it, it's been a while, and…"

"Oh, uhhuh…" GOB ran his finger along the blade.

"It's not that I don't know how, or what, but out of respect to her? Can I do that now?"

"just dive in there, throw it out there, you'll nail it. I mean there's gotta be some chick that finds you attractive." GOB's knife repeatedly struck the wrist of the outline, two knives in perfect parallel.

Michael froze in affront, both in the sight on display and the idea he was presented with.

 _Michael had meant throwing away some of the more cracked Tupperware Tracey had bought._

Maeby found Michael in the dark wooden-cupboarded kitchen with its large out-ward facing window and gaudy patterned orange tiles, staring forlornly at the sad Tupperware. "What's up?"

"I don't know if I should get rid of this stuff."

"Why would you hang onto it?"

"It was Tracey's."

"Are you still using it?"

"Well…no, she got so much of this stuff, I haven't needed to."

"Sometimes, we just need to let go of things. Or at least, that's how I am with my stuff."

 _She did come to California with nothing, her parents presuming her new school would provide everything. Because boarding schools are like five star hotels._

Michael packed it into a neat stack, sliding it into the cupboard. "I don't know if I'm ready."

She shrugged. "It's stuff of the past."

"I know." He paused, "How was school?"

"Still…blah."

"Aren't there any nice young guys there? Aren't they all interested in you?"

She snorted, standing straight in her bell-bottom pants and loose peasant top. "I'm not really what they're used to."

"Too smart?"

"I don't wear a dress, I don't want to throw myself at them and get into stupid competitions with other women. You know. All the usual things."

Michael nodded slowly.

"I better go back to studying."

 _For some reason, while she felt comfortable saying those things to Michael, she didn't feel comfortable with him hearing them._

"I don't think they'd appreciate what they'd have."

Maeby smiled to herself. "Thanks."

 _But it was then that she decided that she would never start a relationship out of boredom or entertainment; not only did it sound like a lot of effort, based on the level of complaining she heard from her relatives, she couldn't be bothered making any investment in something without there being a reward. It wouldn't really matter. School was coming to an end soon, and it was her uncle who had done what her parents never could;_

Maeby boarded the wood-slatted stage in the deep blue graduation gown, ringlets of hair resting on her gown draped over her shoulders, following the line up onto the stage, smiling and shaking hands for her second of glory.

 _Get her to graduate a year level. Unfortunately, with the Nixonian complexity the Bluth company had faced, Michael was pulled away from her studies just a month from her finals. And she wasn't quite the bookworm when he wasn't around._

Maeby lay back on the sofa, dozing in front of the TV. The next day, she leaned boredly against the opening in the Banana stand, as George Senior had showed up, when she opened the side door a crack and stuck her hand out, receiving a handful of notes. And the day after that, she wandered behind a group of liberated women on main street, as they held up their charred brassieres, being captured by several photographers snapping and walking backwards.

 _Any hope of scholarship was dashed, and as she wasn't the jock type, no dashing would either hope to a scholarship. Being pictured on mainstreet bra-less wasn't a great help But to Maeby, it was never an option. College was so much work when she'd only barely made it through with someone hounding her to study, and bras were very functional, and too useful to someone with less regard generally for their appearance. Michael knew the one way to keep her on the straight and narrow was to drive her there himself._

Michael shook his head. "You know, Pop-pop is no longer President. I want you in my office, first thing Tuesday morning."

"Okay."


End file.
